“And then the walking-sticks,” continued the fly, not pausing at the interruption, but rather looking severely at his visitors; “now, a man up here couldn’t hit on one of us with a walking-stick if he tried all day. But it’s quite different down there! A walking-stick is not a stick by the aid of which people walk, but a walking-stick, that is, a stick that walks. It is a very strange insect, and is so exactly like the broken twig of a tree, with the little branches and all, that the most sagacious person can’t tell them apart, without seeing them walk. They are called ‘devil’s walking-sticks’ by some, and we flies think it very appropriate, for they are dreadful for us—that is, for Southern flies. The people will put a walking-stick in a room full of flies, and in a short time he will have killed them all! Think how dreadful!”
“Do you know any more poetry?” asked Zed, who was rather of a literary disposition.
“Well, now, I do know a real cute little song about a fly, written by some man or other, who evidently had a baby. I will sing it for you.”
And the fly buzzed:
“Baby bye, here’s a fly:
Let us watch him, you and I.
How he crawls up the walls,
Yet he never falls!
Don’t you think, with six such legs,
You and I could walk on eggs?